Tintin and the Key to the Underworld
by Galad Estel
Summary: After a kidnapping, Tintin loses all memory since he was 13. Captain Haddock and Chang try to help him regain it, but are troubled by his aloofness to them. Then Tintin disappears again
1. Prologue

**All right, so I have loved Tintin for years. Read the books, watched the cartoons, the live action from the 60's, and the new movie that was just put out, and this story just sort of came to me, so here is the beginning. Milou is Snowy just love the name that's all**

Prologue

It would make a shallow grave. That was his first thought when he noticed that trenches on either side of the dirt road were growing wider as the jeep careened on. The reek of gunpowder and mud was slowly bringing him too full consciousness. His nerves were waking, and all he could feel was pain. His hands had been bound tightly behind his back with rough cords that dug into his skin, and his head felt like an iron ball hanging from a thin rope. He moaned as the jeep hit another bump in the road. He could have sworn he heard a gruff chuckle coming from the driver, who hit harder on the accelerator.

"Where are we? Where are you taking me?" he asked, blinking in the noonday sun.

"They said you were curious," the driver said not answering his question.

"Who said?"

"Never you mind, boy, just try to get some rest."

"Where are you taking me?"

"You already asked that."

"You didn't answer me."

"Don't get friendly with the prisoner," another man's voice, this one low and threatening, hissed. For the first Tintin noticed that there was someone sitting next to the driver. He frowned and continued to try to get free from his bonds though to no avail.

"Sorry, kid, can't tell ye," the driver said and turned his attention to the road.

"You'll know soon enough," the second growled turning to look at the boy. He was a tall elegant looking man dressed in a stylish brown suit and a tan hat with a chocolate colored band. His hair was brown and so was his mustache, which was full. A cigarette dangled from his lips, "Are you comfortable?"

"No, not really," Tintin answered, "why? Are you concerned?"

The man merely smiled. He removed the cigarette and threw it out the window. Then he took out a well-polished revolver and aimed it at the boy, blowing on its head gently as if to engender the idea that he and it were quite close.

"I would not try escaping if I were you. A fall from a car at this speed would be a sure way to die; besides you would go out with a bang before you had a chance to hit the ground. Do you understand?"

Tintin nodded, glaring.

"Good."

"What to you want with me?"

The man's eyes gleamed for a moment as he surveyed his prisoner, his youth added to the effect of the utter helplessness that his position inspired. His ginger hair lay in damp curls on his smooth white forehead, his blue grey eyes narrowed in desperate anger, the wild, fearful sort you find in a hunted animal, but his face had the round softness of a child, the supple lips trembling slightly. The man sucked in his breath and shook his head.

"It's a shame, a real shame," he said.

Again Tintin tried to get his hands free. No use.

"Where's is Milou?"

"Who?" asked the man in brown.

"I think he means the dog," the driver said making another quick turn. The road was growing narrow now passing through thick woodlands.

The man in brown nodded and lit another cigarette.

"He's in the trunk," he said turning and blowing smoke in Tintin's face. The boy coughed and curled down in an effort to shield himself.

They made another sharp turn and an iron gate came in view.

"Driver, stop the car," the man in brown said softly, "but we'll wait for the others before we unload the cargo."

He gave a pointed look in Tintin's direction.

"Can I please see Milou?" Tintin begged.

"Oh, shut up," said the man in brown.

"Please, please, I must know if he's all right. Have you hurt him? Oh, my poor, poor Milou."

The driver looked uneasy. He was a burly man with plebian features, and swarthy skin that life had run over many times. The scars and wrinkles must have all had a story to tell.

"It could be a trick," he said.

The man in brown nodded and sighed, glancing down at his watch.

"They should be here," he snapped.

"Milou," Tintin whined.

"Be quiet, you infernal wretch!" the man in brown ordered waving his gun at him.

Tintin was silent. These men were obviously worried. Maybe something had gone wrong with their crooked plans. Perhaps the police had intercepted their partners. Hope kindled in the boy's heart.

Ten minutes past slowly. The man in brown walked back and forth in front of the gate watching the road with anxious eyes, still smoking. The driver remained in the car cursing and glaring back at Tintin now and again. Tintin squirmed uncomfortably. It was mid August, and the day was hot. His skin itched from the sweat he could not brush away.

"All right," said the man in brown, "we have waited long enough. We'll have to do it ourselves. The supplies should be in the warehouse. Bring the boy."

"Milou, he'll die in there," Tintin pleaded, "It's too hot. He won't be able to breath. Please, I promise I won't try anything. I just want my dog back."

"Do you promise to keep quiet and be a good boy?" the man in brown asked softly running his fingers along Tintin's shoulder.

"Yes, yes," Tintin said looking up pitifully at his captor.

"All right, then," he said, then turned to the driver, "take the dog out, but keep him in his cage. We can use it to make sure the boy behaves."

"All right, but if it bites me, I'm warning you I might bite back," the driver grumbled making a proud display of an expensive looking pocketknife with a gold handle that bore an eagle's head, which stood out strangely from his otherwise raggedy attire.

"You be careful with that," the man in brown said coolly.

He cut the bonds that encircled the boy's feet with another pocketknife of similar appearance, though the eagle head was more ornate and the blade was duller. Then he helped him up and led him with caution through the gate and on down a thin, spidery path that crawled it's way up a slope and onto a plain. A large rectangular building was in view, presumably the warehouse. Tintin could hear the driver's heavy foot falls behind him, and he thought he heard Milou whine once but he could not be sure.

"Well, here we are," said the man in brown. He rebound Tintin's feet, as he and the driver forced open the bolted doors. Then they brought boy and dog inside laying them side-by-side on the hard floor and looking them over.

"I'll go get our tools," the man in brown said, "you watch over him."

The driver nodded and sat down a few yards away on a plank of plywood.

"Milou, are you all right," Tintin queried looking through the meshed wire at his beloved fox terrier. Milou whined.

"Oh, Milou, how do we ever get into these messes, hmm, boy?"

Milou whined again but offered no explanation.

Tintin closed his eyes.

"Strange place this, isn't Milou? I wonder what they want from us."

No answer. From somewhere a light came on and flickered dully. The man in brown came back, holding a needle in his hand. Slowly he peeled back the sleeve of Tintin's sweater. Milou growled weakly but could do nothing. The man in brown smiled and pressed down to release something into the boy's veins. For a moment Tintin felt a strange tingling all over his body then he lost consciousness.

**All right so seeing that this is my first Tintin fanifc so I want to see what you think :)**


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

"Tintin, Tintin can you hear me? Answer me, answer me anything, just say something, lad. Please."

The voice was choked and worn as if had been going on like this for hours, speaking and sobbing over him, but he could not tell why. He did not know the voice, and the speaker was hidden from him. Everything was dark.

"God have mercy, don't take him from me. Not yet. Don't you understand? He's just like a son to me. Oh, I know I don't have any right to ask for anything. What I've done to deserve him in the first place is beyond me, but you'd be cruel to take him from me like this. It's not the boy's fault that I am drunken no-gooder."

There was a pause. He could hear the man breathing heavily in and out. He could feel his hand on his arm just below the shoulder, rubbing up and down. The fingers attempted to sooth him, but they were rough, plying harshly letting out bitter emotion.

"Oh, what's the use," the man went on, "no one's listening."

"Visiting hours are over," said a high feminine voice from the other side of the bed.

"Please, just let me stay with him a little longer. I thought I saw his hand twitch just now."

"I am sorry, captain, but orders are orders. I am sure you understand."

"Oh, I understand well enough. I just don't like it that's all."

"If he shows any signs of waking, we'll call you."

"Fine, fine."

The man bent down and kissed the boy's brow.

"Get better, son," he whispered then turned away.

"He's more drunk than last time," a woman's voice hissed.

Tintin listened to the man's grudging footsteps until they faded beyond recollection, and again darkness claimed him.

* * *

><p>Captain Haddock surveyed the grounds of Marlinspike through his bedroom window. It was twelve o'clock but he had not yet dressed, brushed his teeth, or eaten breakfast. There was painful pounding in his head, a reminder of the whisky he had downed the night before, as if the two bottles lying empty by the side of his bed were not accusing enough. He stumbled back to the bed and sank down on the mattress. He knew he should get up and wash himself, bring order to his tangled beard, get a scrap of something to eat, so he could go down to the hospital and see Tintin. See Tintin stretched out on one of those clean, white hospital cots, sleeping, endlessly sleeping. The doctors were hesitant to make any conclusions as yet, but it did not look good. The boy had been banged up pretty badly by all accounts. Cuts and scratches all over the arms, bruises all across his chest, and a few major hits to the head. Some had said that it was strange that his legs were left untouched, others thought it queer that the boy had left lying on a bench near the hospital, but all Haddock knew was that he wanted to kill the brutes that had done this to him, who had dared to hurt his boy.<p>

Marlinspike was dead without him. No high boyish laughter ringing through the halls and across the grounds. No long string of carefree chatter following him wherever he went. Why had he gone and got so attached? He should have seen this end coming, but it was no use now to try to see his world without Tintin.

Milou was probably still curled up by the front door, waiting for his master to return. Dogs were not allowed in hospitals. Bloody regulations. Professor Calculus still thought that Tintin was off on a trip somewhere. He kept on asking when he would get back, but Haddock had not the heart to drum it into his brain that Tintin had been badly injured, that he was in a coma, that he might never return. It would make all this seem to real.

"Captain Haddock, Captain Haddock," a small voice said from the other side of the door, "please let me in."

At first, Haddock thought he must have been mistaken. It must have been the remainder of a forgotten dream.

"Captain, please," the voice begged, "this is getting heavy."

"Just lay it on the table," the captain said instinctively, "I'll get it later."

"Oh, oh, all right."

There was the sharp clang as a tray was laid down clumsily. Haddock wondered who it could be. It was definitely not Nestor.

"Wait," he called, "come in."

The door opened slowly and in walked a young Chinese boy, his head bent slightly over a tray.

"Chang!" the captain shouted, "what on earth are you doing here?"

"I came to see Tintin," the boy answered setting the tray down on an end table and looking up at the captain through wisps of jet-black hair

"Do Mr. and Mrs. Wang know you are here?"

"I left them a note," Chang answered softly.

"You left them a note! You left them a note!" Haddock roared, shaking his head vehemently from side to side, "They're probably worried sick about you. You call them this moment and tell them you're all right. It was wrong of you to leave like that. You shouldn't have come."

"I had to see him. I had to see Tintin, in case, well…"

Haddock's features softened as he gazed at the boy, and his voice died to a whisper.

"In case, he dies."

Chang nodded, his eyes filling with tears.

"I lost my mother and father. I don't want to loose him too, at least if I must I would like to be able to say good bye."

"All right, lad, I give in, but make that call. I'll be up soon."

Chang gave a grateful bow and left the room.

Haddock turned to look at meal Chang had brought. A weak smile came to his face.

"Fish," he told the empty air. And then another thought came to mind, "What I do I do with him?"

* * *

><p>"Good morning, dear," said a feminine singsong voice, "I'm just going to open these curtains and let in some light, okay?"<p>

Tintin had been hearing this voice for a while. It spoke in a regular pattern, and he had grown to be more aware of things at that time of day when it entered his closed world. It said about the same things, making it easy to follow, and it was always so cheerful. It seemed to be the source of light to him. A light that was gradually becoming clearer to him, drawing him from the dark that frightened him.

"Please," he said as he heard the footsteps moving once more towards the door, "Don't go."

There was silence. Then he heard a small gasp. Then the steps came to his cot. A form bent over him, but he was not afraid of it.

"Goodness did you say something?" the form asked.

"Ah, yes."

"Oh, thank God, he's waking up. Mabel, would you call a doctor. How do you feel, boy?"

"I, hurt."

"You poor thing, you poor, poor child. Can you see me?"

"Yes."

His vision was indeed clearing, and he could see her now though it seemed to be through a thin veil, which slowly waned and waned until there was nothing left of it. She was a lovely sort of woman, somewhere between forty and fifty years of age, with a round kind face touched with dimples. Her hair was light and formed a halo about her head.

"Where am I?" Tintin asked.

"You are in hospital."

"Why?"

"You were attacked by thugs. They beat you up pretty badly. We've been worrying about you."

A man came in and brushed by the woman, bending over Tintin.

"How are you feeling?"

"I feel all right," Tintin said bravely.

The man began looking him over thoroughly, his eyes growing increasingly larger as he went on.

"I am Dr. Green, I've been monitoring your progress, these past three weeks," the man said quietly, "we were not sure if you were going to make it, but it seems that you have made a complete recovery. Welcome back to the land of the living, my friend."

Tintin smiled faintly.

* * *

><p>"You say you cannot remember anything about the attack?"<p>

"No, nothing at all," Tintin answered staring with a rather bewildered expression at the two policemen who had planted themselves in front of him.

"What is the last thing you remember, Tintin?" one of them asked fingering a pen. The nurse, who had announced there presence, had called them "Thomson and Thompson", but he could not be certain as to who was who. They looked very much alike and were dressed in identical suits and bowler hats.

"I don't know," he said elusively. He did not particularly like the way they were treating him with such familiarity, as if they somehow knew him.

"Oh, come on, Tintin, you must have some idea."

"Yes, to be precise some idea you must have."

He remained silent looking down at his hands. He did not know what they wanted from him, but if he said nothing they would continue to be there asking him questions, and his head was already starting to ache.

"The dog, I remember a dog."

"A dog?"

"Yes, a small white fox terrier."

"Milou?"

"I don't think he had a name. He…I…he saved my life."

The detectives exchanged glances.

"Tintin, do you…"

But Tintin never heard the rest of the sentence for at that moment the door burst open, and a wild looking man with messy black hair and an untrimmed beard half ran, half stumbled into the room. Once in, he threw himself on the bed beside the boy flinging his arms around him and cradling him to his burly chest, showering him with tears and kisses. For a moment, Tintin stayed still in shock then he pulled away.

"Who are you?" he gasped.

The man gazed at him stunned and hurt as if he had for no reason cut his right hand off.

"Tintin, don't you remember me?"

"No, who are you?"

"I am Haddock, Captain Haddock."

Tintin stared at him, trying desperately to recall the name or face but to know avail. He looked to the two policemen for help, but they looked as startled as this new man.

"Lad, don't you remember me…at all?"

Tintin shook his head.

**_Please Review_**


	3. Chapter Two

**I would like to thank all of you for your wonderful reviews. You are all so awesome. And now without further ado, here's...**

**Chapter Two**

Chang stood silently in the doorway of the hospital room, chewing slowly on his lip and shifting a basket back and forth between his two arms. He was not certain if he should proceed into the room or flee to the safety of Marlinspike. He had wanted more than anything to see Tintin again, and there he was alive and seemingly well, but something was wrong, definitely wrong. It was plain as the anguished expression on the captain's face.

The basket whined.

"Shhh," Chang chided, stealing into the room and placing the basket down in the corner. He sat down lightly on it but firmly enough so that its occupant could not open the lid and escape. No one had noticed, all eyes were still on Tintin.

"Do you remember who you are?" Dr. Green, who had entered the room shortly before Chang, asked Tintin.

"What do you mean by that?"

"What is your name?"

"I am called Tintin."

"And how old are you?"

"I will be fourteen come March."

"Fourteen? Are you sure of that?"

"Yes, quite."

"Remarkable," the doctor breathed, leaning back in his chair.

"I do not see anything remarkable about it," Tintin said indignantly, folding his arms across his chest.

"What's wrong with him?" Captain Haddock asked taking his eyes off the boy for a second to search the doctor's face.

"He is suffering from some sort of amnesia, I suppose. There must have been internal damage to his head."

"You suppose? YOU SUPPOSE! Aren't you a doctor? Don't you know?"

The basket moved under Chang and let out a soft growl.

"Be quiet, Milou," Chang hissed.

"It just seems strange. His injuries, well, they have seemed to have healed overnight and now…"

"You need not talk about me, like I am not here," Tintin snapped, "and as for amnesia, I know perfectly well who I am. And since I now do feel better, I shall be on my way and need not trouble you further. I thank you greatly for your services, gentlemen."

"And where are you planning on going?" the doctor asked.

"What concern of that is yours?" Tintin asked, suspicion mirrored in his eyes.

"You must still feel a bit weak."

"Actually I am in very good sorts this morning, thank you."

The doctor and the captain exchanged worried glances, as Tintin got up and moved towards the door, but they did not stop him. Chang wondered if they were just going to let him go like that. It did not seem right. Did they not care? He leapt up and rushed to the older boy's side and seized his arm.

"Don't go," he cried, "please don't go."

"Who are you?" Tintin asked.

"Your friend, Chang. You saved my life...more than once."

"I do not remember that," Tintin said looking from Chang to the doctor to the captain to the detectives and then back at Chang again.

"But I do," Chang persisted, "You saved me from the river, and then you came and you found me when I was lost in the mountains of Tibet."

"I don't understand."

"But do you believe me?"

"I have never left Belgium."

"But you have, you have been all over the world. You are a _famous_ reporter."

"It's like a dream, just like some mad dream."

"But it isn't. I am telling you the truth, I remember, I remember it all."

Chang looked up at Tintin pleadingly.

"You've got to believe me," he said taking Tintin's hands in his.

Tintin stared back into his eyes for a moment, uncertainty reflecting on his face.

"I do believe you," he said at last.

Chang smiled and swung his and Tintin's hands back and forth.

"But I still don't understand," Tintin continued, "what…"

"Nnn, nnn!" Milou, who had managed to escape from the basket, yapped happily as he played about Tintin's legs.

"Milou," Chang sighed, "I told you not to come out until after the doctor had left."

"Ah!" cried Tintin, "it's him. The dog I told you about."

He dropped to his knees and stroked the dog's ears and muzzle. Milou pressed his paws against his chest and excitedly licked his face. Tintin laughed and drew the dog closer to him, pressing him against his chest and half burying his face in the white fur.

"He saved my life," Tintin said raising his head and looking up at Chang, then hesitantly he asked, "is he yours?"

Chang's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.

"No, no!" he cried shaking his head, "he's not mine. He's, he's…yours!"

Tintin studied the others' faces for a moment.

"What aren't you telling me?"

* * *

><p>"So what you are saying is that I am missing three and a half years worth of memory?" Tintin asked, when Haddock and Chang had both finally run out of breath from telling him things about himself.<p>

They had all relocated to the living room of Marlinspike, upon the doctor's suggestion that it might be more a relaxed environment, and Haddock was glad of this. There was something about being in a hospital that made the situation seem even more depressing. Perhaps because there was no color in the room that Tintin had been placed in. Or maybe it was the lack of whisky, for whatever reason, now that he was back at home he had relocated his tongue, and it had been moving for hours.

"Yes, lad, that's what we've been trying to tell you."

Tintin got up from the chair, he had been placed in, and paced back and forth in front of the coach, where Haddock, the Thom(p)sons, and Chang were sitting. (Well, to be precise the coach could only hold three of them, but Chang was perched quite contently on the arm of the coach nearest Haddock).

"So instead of turning fourteen next March, I will be turning…eighteen?"

"Yes, that's so."

"Unbelievable," Tintin said his face awash with awe, "Incredible! Extraordinary!"

Haddock stared at the boy as if he had gone mad. Why the youngster seemed pleased!

"Do you think there is any chance I shall recover?" Tintin asked turning to the doctor.

"There is always a chance," Dr. Green mumbled half-heartedly.

"So…hmm, I live here with you," Tintin said gesturing at Haddock, "But I travel all over the world, and this is my dog and his name is Milou, and I don't happen to have a girlfriend, do I?"

Haddock shook his head.

"Good, because that would be dreadfully awkward. And I can drive, and I solve mysteries and fight drug lords. Magnificent."

Tintin sank back down in his chair with a contented sigh

"I think that I like my life."

"Well, you aren't going to be chasing any crooks for a long while yet," Haddock snorted getting up and walking over to him, "Not if I can help it."

Tintin looked up at him, his head cocked slightly to one side, his eyes wide with innocence. He smiled.

**_Please Review_**


	4. Chapter Three

**_My apologies if this seems confusing. All I can say is that all will be explained in_**_ time..._

**Chapter Threeth**

The Palace of a Thousand Dreams, he thought, looking down at his half finished wine glass. That's what Rastapopoulos had called it the first time he visited nine or so years ago, and it had stuck, though Morris himself was inclined to think it a rather long, trite name brought about by his comrade's drunkenness and his strange fascination with the Arabian Nights. Yet the palace suited him. It did not have very large grounds, true, but General Morris was not a man of movement. He was more inclined to spend his days deep in thought, reading in his vast libraries, or lying on one of his many expensive leather sofas, trying to make sense of the complexities of life, his two favorites subjects being pleasure and pain—and how they affected the human mind.

The palace itself was a strange construction of bulletproof glass, steel, marble of various colors and gold. It boasted along with the libraries and laboratories, which were kept scrupulously up-to-date, an indoor as well as outdoor pool, a ballroom, and innumerable guest rooms. Morris was rather known for his elaborate and wild parties.

He was a man of English breeding, his father being an Englishman of good blood as they used to say and quite rich as well. His mother had been a Portuguese woman, who left her native land to marry his father. Morris had inherited her dark hair, though it was now quite grey, and her bright, intelligent eyes, which had dimmed a little with age but were still sharp. He was married young to a woman who was a great deal older than he. She died some years ago, leaving him a fortune and a son.

The fortune he had used to his advantage, buying up quite a bit of land in Italy. He once had dreams of creating a second Roman Empire, but once he realized how much work it would take he quickly gave up the idea and had settled to make up a small city-state of the land he had bought. This he had succeeded in doing with the help of others including the notorious Roberto Rastapopoulos, who he had known since his youth. In return he had helped Rastapopoulos with many of his endeavors, though his son, Drago, was better acquainted with him than he was, because Morris preferred staying in place and keeping his small country under strict rule to traveling the world, endangering his life and taking orders from other people.

He placed the goblet to his lips, pouring the last of the bittersweet wine into his mouth. Savoring it, as he stared at the glowing crystal, set ablaze by the light of the setting sun that streamed in through the bay window. He swallowed then sighed setting the glass down on the desk and looking around at the front room, which mainly served as an office. He glanced again at the cuckoo clock on the wall and then sighing heavily, poured himself a second glass.

Suddenly the French doors that led out into the hall were flung apart and in marched Rastapopoulos his cheeks flushed, his eyes like tired flames. In his right hand he held a crumpled newspaper, which he flung down on the desk in front of Morris.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded sharply.

"Would you like a cigar?" Morris answered calmly opening a drawer and placing a box of fine cigars on the desk, taking one out and waving it leisurely before him. (He made a habit of keeping the favorite cigars and cigarettes of his associates in stock, though he himself preferred pipes.)

"I demand an explanation," Rastapopoulos answered ignoring the proffered cigar.

"Your men never showed up."

"So you had to botch the operation?"

Morris avoided the other man's eyes and placed the cigar down slowly on the desk, a smile quietly crossing his face.

"You intend to make up for your own negligence by insulting me."

Rastapopoulos appeared even more flustered. He looked around the room then seized a chair from the side and threw it in front of the desk.

"I have a valid excuse. The men I sent—two of my best— were arrested that very day on charges of theft and perjury."

"You should have sent replacements."

"I didn't learn about it until the next morning."

Rastapopoulos seated himself in the chair and picked up the cigar, twisting it between his middle and index finger.

"Excuses, excuses, there are always risks, you should have taken them into account, I did," Morris said handing him a lighter. Rastapopoulos did not take it. He just kept holding the cigar, squeezing it between his fingers.

"Oh, well, then, perhaps you would like to explain to me why you didn't go through with our plan, why there isn't a gravestone out there bearing the name of that nosy reporter, or why I am doomed to read story after story of his marvelous recovery in the papers."

"I never forced you to read the paper."

"Ripley, this is no joking matter. I wanted the kid dead. Dead, got it?" Rastapopoulos hissed snapping the cigar in two and letting the pieces fall to the floor.

"Ah, yes, I know, but you never told me clearly when to kill him."

"I do not think you understand, Ripley. Tintin is not someone to be trifled with. Believe me, I know him. I know him quite well."

Morris looked at his comrade's face a long while. He looked tired, no, spent. His jowls hung in loose pockets about his large nose and mouth, as if he had lost a good deal of weight in a short time. Bags hung down below his small, deep-set eyes, and patches of grey stood out in his dark hair, heavy brows, and thin moustache. His skin looked pale and sickly, except in places were the sun had scorched it leaving noticeable red blotches. Morris pondered on how so great a man could be so soon degraded to this pitiful state, but he would not allow himself to sympathize. Pain was an inevitable and necessary part of life. Slowly he stood up and circled the room twice, his eyes staring vacantly at the paintings that hung on the walls. Wordlessly he opened a cabinet and unlocked a safe. He withdrew three folders, relocked the safe, placed the folders on the desk, and sat back down.

"What are these?" Rastapopoulos asked looking suspiciously at the folders.

"You may know him, but not as well as I do."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Wordlessly Morris pushed forward a folder. Written with black marker on its glossy surface were six bold capital letters followed by four digits:

**TINTIN, 4,793**.

(((())))(((())))(((())))(((())))(((())))(((())))(((())))(((())))(((())))(((())))(((())))(((())))(((())))

Tintin. As far back as he could remember he was called that. Tintin. As far as he knew it meant nothing. He did not know why he was called that, or whom it was that so named him. That had not seemed to matter. It was his name, something to cling to when he had naught else. It was he; he was Tintin, and he was Tintin still. He could see it the mirror, the same wide eyes staring back at him, the same ears, the same nose, but he had changed, how he had changed. He had sprouted several inches, though he was still comparably shorter than most men. His body was slim, strong, and graceful, not unlike a dancer's, though nowhere in the many articles written about him did it mention a fascination with dance. There were still some marks leftover on his arms and chest from the attack, but they were not as prominent as they had been before. Slowly they were disappearing, and everything was returning to normal, or so he supposed. These strangers who knew him, they were kind, but it was often awkward to be with them, especially with the captain because he seemed so dreadfully fond of him. Tintin was always afraid that he would disappoint him. In the first few days after he had been released from hospital he had made it plain how grateful he was to the captain for taking such good care of him and letting him stay at Marlinspike, but this seemed to only perplex and even hurt the poor man, who asked him kindly not to speak of it again, and then so often the captain would slip and ask him "do you remember this" or "you must remember that" about one of the adventures they had apparently had. He would shake his head and apologize, and then the captain would apologize, and they would pretend it had not happened. It was all so strange.

"Tintin, are you all right in there?"

Tintin instinctively drew the towel closer about his body.

"I am fine, captain."

He shivered, suddenly realizing how cold he was and began jerking on his clothing: a white shirt, a tan pullover, brown plus fours, white underwear, and yellow socks.

"Are you sure, lad? You've been in there more than an hour…do you need any help?"

Tintin made a face. He was about to say he was not an invalid but changed his mind.

"I am fine, captain, really."

He rubbed his hair dry with towel and walked out, deciding to comb his hair later when the captain was not waiting anxiously at the door. They did that. They constantly worried about him, watching him, making sure he was all right, and probing him with questions. It was almost unbearable. And always he felt so empty, so alone.

"Good evening, captain," he said trying to sound cheerful, so the captain would not feel uneasy.

"Good evening, Tintin," the captain said for a moment studying his face, "how are you feeling?"

"Better, much better, thank you."

Silence. Neither spoke. Tintin noticed that the captain was looking down at his feet. He looked down as well, but could not see anything wrong with his feet.

"Yellow socks," the captain mumbled.

"Yes, they are."

"I have never seen you wear yellow socks."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Oh."

Tintin squirmed uncomfortably, putting one foot behind the other in an effort to hide them. He could not really see what difference it made in what color socks he wore. Really, why would he have yellow socks in his drawer if he did not use them? But he decided to stick to white or black socks from then on.

"Would you like some hot chocolate?" the captain asked drawing his eyes up to the boy's face again.

"If it's not too much of a bother…"

"Oh, I already made it. It's out on the stove."

"Oh."

He should really stop saying that. It was sure to be disconcerting.

"Thank you," he said with a slight bow of his head.

"Not a problem just needs a little heating up. You know I think I'll have some with you."

They went down together. It was dark outside, and later than Tintin had supposed, half

past nine. He should have just changed into his pajamas and gone to bed, then he would

not have the bother about those socks. It was dark outside, all the stars were sleeping

beneath cloud blankets. The wind hurled rain against the walls and the windows of the

house, shrieking out the miseries of its existence. How lonely it sounded. Tintin shivered

and for a moment he clung onto the captain's arm.

"Is something the matter, lad?"

"No, I was just remembering."

"Remembering what?" the captain asked, his face so eager, Tintin had to look away,

"The last night, the last night I remember, three and half years ago to this very day."

The captain had him sit down and in a few minutes had a hot mug of cocoa planted in

front of him. Tintin sipped it slowly, letting warmth flood back into him. He looked

up and met the captain's eyes. How sad they were. He wished he could make them stop

hurting, but he felt so, so afraid. There seemed to be such a distance between them, and

though he knew the captain loved him, he could not feel it, only a strange tingling in his

mind, as he was suppose to do something, but what he did not know. All else was numb.

"Tell me about it," the captain said sitting on the chair beside him and taking his hand,

"tell me about the last night."

_**Please review...**_


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

"So you want to know my story?" Tintin said, lifting his head to meet the captain's eyes.

"I just want to help, that's all, and if I knew what was troubling you…"

"Yes, yes, I know. So how much do you already know of me?"

"You're Tintin, boy reporter, what else is there to know?"

"Lots or nothing, I suppose."

"Are you trying to fuddle my old head?"

"No, captain, of course not. I just do not know if you'd understand."

"Well, how can I, when you won't say anything?"

Tintin adjusted himself in his chair and looked down at his mug of hot chocolate as if he were trying to read something in it.

"Your father was a ship captain, was he not? And his father before him? You speak with pride of your family name, the name of Haddock."

"Yes, well, why shouldn't I?"

"You should. You have every right to."

"Well, then what are you getting at?"

"What if you didn't know…"

"Didn't know what?"

Tintin let out a long sigh.

"Captain, please don't interrupt. It doesn't make what I have to say any easier."

"What are you trying to say, Tintin?"

Tintin sighed again, pushed the chair back, and got up, walking over to the window and looking out into the storm.

"Tintin, what's the matter?" Haddock asked. The boy made no reply. Slowly, Haddock walked towards him and placed his hand on his shoulder. For a moment Tintin stiffened but then he relaxed, leaning back against the captain, closing his eyes.

"Growing up, I…I didn't know my father."

Haddock grasp tightened instinctively.

"I am sorry, lad," he whispered.

"Yes, well, then he came back or rather he never left, but I was left, I don't know how to explain…he came but he didn't want me."

"He didn't want you? Who wouldn't want you?"

"He was ashamed of me."

"Ashamed of _you_?"

Tintin said nothing.

"How do you know he was your father, if you never saw him before?"

"He told the priest."

"What? Why would he do that?"

"He had to confess to someone. The sin lay heavy on his heart."

He said the words almost mockingly.

"What sin?"

Tintin shook his head.

"My father is a coward."

Haddock turned Tintin towards him. The boy's eyes glistened with tears, which were starting to spill over onto his rosy cheeks.

"Ah, my poor lad," Haddock soothed. He pulled Tintin close to him until his face was nestled against his chest. He stroked the boy's disheveled hair, singing a sailor's lullaby.

(((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((())))

It was quiet night in Paradiso, warm and dark. A thin silhouette stood hidden under the eaves, staring at another figure crouched near the ground

"What have you done, Marcus?"

The voice was so soft it was lost in the wind. Marcus did not turn, but stayed where he was bent over the body, his fingers hopelessly placed over the chest trying to stop the blood from oozing out. He could hear the beat of his own heart fast and loud, like some deranged clock. His shirtsleeves were stained red.

"Marcus," the voice came now from behind him, and he whirled, his hands clenched in fists, but they fell when he saw whom it was.

"Armina," he muttered.

"You called me," she explained hurriedly, trying to tear her eyes away from the corpse, "you said you needed help."

"I…I…"

"Is he dead?"

"Yes," Marcus swallowed, "I killed him."

This was all a nightmare. This could not be happening. He was not sitting in a pool of blood. His young cousin was not standing there looking at him with that mask of calm to hide her shock and horror. Her whole body trembling; her face fixed like stone. And the man that was lying there with that white, white face and those empty eyes, nothing left behind those eyes. The whole body was just an empty shell, like an egg with all the yolk draining out.

"You should have warned me," she said reproachfully, "that there was a body involved."

"I couldn't very well have said that over the phone, besides I didn't think you would have come."

"What are you going to do now?"

"I…I don't know."

"If we stay here, we'll be discovered. We should leave."

"They will find out it's me. They'll find the body, and they will find out it was I, who did it."

Armina looked from the body to the buildings around them, her wary eyes lingering on the windows. She clasped her hands to keep them from shaking.

"Why did you kill him? Why? It's wrong to kill."

"And it would have been right to leave that man to beat an old lady to pulp?" Marcus snapped back.

"Why was he beating her?"

"Rent money."

Armina stared down at the body.

"Couldn't you have knocked him out?"

"I was angry. I wasn't thinking. I had a knife. He had no mercy. Would you rather the old woman had died?"

Armina said nothing. She looked over the man's bloodied uniform. He was an official of some sort, but it was too dark to make out what kind.

"He was asking for rent money at this time of night?"

"He was drunk."

"You should have called for help."

"You know no one would come. No one cares."

"Why'd you call me? Why did you bring me into this? What can I do?"

"You are not the sort of person that provokes much notice, besides you read all those mysteries. You can tell me what sort of evidence they would be looking for, what Holmes would look for."

"I don't know if Holmes would approve of this."

"I think he'd understand," Marcus said softly.

The girl looked down at the massive body that lay sprawled on its back on the concrete.

"He's so large."

"I know."

"We ought to burry him. How I wish someone had died recently."

"That's a terrible thing to wish."

"It would be convenient. We all have to die sometime."

"Maybe we can chop him up. Bury him in pieces."

"That would take too long. Did anyone see you?"

"Only the old woman, and she fainted dead away when she saw the knife. I don't think she saw me clearly."

"Can you be sure?"

"No, I cannot be totally certain, but if someone had seen me, I doubt we would be alone right now."

"And there is no one else who would help?"

"If I had thought I could find someone else, I would not have called you."

Armina drew a long breath.

"I'll get some towels."

(((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((())))

Chang drew the brush slowly across the canvas, watching with delight as the colors blended together. As of yet there was no real form, but he would think of one. It was still quite early in the morning, but it was sunny if a little cold. He had a finished a hurried breakfast, gathered his art supplies, and gone out to the garden. He loved painting even if it was bit frustrating at times, especially with watercolors, since they were so unforgiving. A tad too much water, and your whole painting would be ruined. Yet, it was worth in the end. His artwork made Tintin smile. It was good to see his friend happy. He seemed so down lately. Chang had hoped to paint a portrait of Milou for him, but the terrier never seemed to hold still long enough for his to draw him, but Chang knew he would catch him unawares someday when he was asleep. He smirked at the thought and dipped his brush into a brilliant scarlet applying it with cohesive strokes to his painting. The sound of pruning sheers broke his steady concentration, and he looked up to see a short, skinny man with a thick moustache and a pointed beard, dressed in a white shirt, yellow vest, and black slacks pruning the nearby rose bushes.

"Good morning, Professor Calculus," he called. He remembered to raise his voice quite a bit so the professor could hear him. Usually Calculus did not even notice him, he was so quiet.

"What? What?" Calculus asked turning round and round, "did someone say something. No, no, I must just be hearing things. Back to my work, that's it. Must get this done."

"Good morning, Professor," Chang called, repressing a giggle, "Here I am behind the bush, see my hand."

"How extraordinary, there is hand growing from that bush. Quite remarkable indeed."

"No, no," Chang said between fits of laughter, "I am here, see?"

He stood up so that the professor could see him.

"My, my," Calculus said, "now my rose bush is growing boys. Imagine that."

"I did not grow from rose bush, I am here to see Tintin."

"Made of Tin? Really? You look quite real to me."

Chang could not longer contain himself. He burst out laughing.

"I do not see what is so funny," the professor snorted then eyed him suspiciously, "Have you been lying to me? Why I bet you were just hiding there, trying to trick me into thinking you grew from that bush, you naughty, naughty boy, haven't your parents taught you to respect your elders?"

"I am sorry, professor," said Chang with a dipping his head, mainly to hide his grin, "I don't think we have been properly introduced. I am Chang."

He held out his hand to the professor.

"You want change? What does he take me for? A money lender?"

Chang dropped his hand to his side.

"No, I am Chang, Chang. I am Tintin's friend from China."

"And now he wants me to believe he's made of China?"

"Not of China, professor, from."

"You want to start a farm? Well, how nice. I thought that young people had quite given up on that trade. It is nice to hear that there are exceptions. If you would like, I'll teach you how to prune. You see you hold the sheers like this and…"

(((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((()))))((((())))

Rastapopoulos stared down at the many folders that lay scattered on the desk. Then he turned his gaze back on Morris:

"What you are saying is that you know all of Tintin's thoughts for the last three and a half years?"

"All his thoughts, his dreams, his ambitions, needs, secret desires, subconscious memories, everything you would ever need to know about the boy to get him, and get him good."

"Make him suffer."

"Precisely, and we also have quite a bit of information on his contacts."

"Yes, we will crush them all."

"Leave no loose strands."

"We will achieve victory."

"For now and for forever."

"Just, you wait, Tintin," Rastapopoulos, "We'll see who emerges on top this time."

**_Please Review_**


	6. Chapter Five

**_I would like to thank all of you kindly for your reviews. They mean a lot to me and I have just had enough time of late to right another chapter, so here it is, enjoy-Galad Estel_**

**Chapter Five**

"What do you mean it's confidential, you meat-headed mongrels?" Haddock roared, glaring at the two detectives. They were gathered round the Thomsons' kitchen table, which served now as a barrier between the angry retired sea captain and the wary policemen.

"Just as we said…it's confidential," Thomson stammered.

"Yes, to be precise, it's quite confidential," Thompson agreed.

"Yes without a doubt, it's…"

"So you are not going to help me?" Haddock snapped.

"We're sorry, but we really can't tell you anything without his consent."

"It would be an invasion of his privacy."

"Precisely."

"Listen, you two I don't care if it's an invasion or not. I have never seen him act like this, and I need to know why."

"Acting how?" Thomson asked.

"Thundering Typhoons, must I explain everything? The boy's been all out of sorts. Didn't you notice? One moment he's fine, the next he's not. He's completely cheery this minute, but wait a few seconds and he's in tears. It's, it's…insane."

"Well, it seems that you should be consulting the help of a doctor, not a detective," Thompson said.

"Perhaps," Haddock grumbled, chewing absently on his knuckle, "but if I knew more about his past, maybe I could better understand him."

"Well, has he told you anything?"

"A little, but he'll just as quickly shut up about it."

"Well, I am afraid there is really nothing we can do."

"Quite true. We are very sorry…"

"Fine. I'll find it out on my own," Haddock stood up pushing his fists against the table. The legs of his chair scraped against the floor admitting a sharp squeaking sound, "Good day, gentlemen."

"Good day," they called after him amiably.

He sighed and pulled his hat down over his ears.

"Phytoplankton," he murmured and walked out into the street.

It was ten o'clock in the morning. Tintin had just finished fixing himself a cup of tea. There were piles of newspapers in front of him, which he flipped through haphazardly. He felt as if he were looking for something but he did not know what. He had looked at most of the papers already and could not see how he could figure anything else out. He sighed and pushed another paper away, feeling lost and uncertain. In the distance he could hear Chang playing tug-of-war with Milou, but it seemed so far away. He lifted the teacup to his face breathing it in as if the scent of warm, wet mint could revive his inner soul. Suddenly one of his hands fell down and landed on a paper. For a moment he remained frozen. Everything still, only his eyes kept on blinking, faster than what seemed necessary. He tried lifting his hand, but his eyes looked down first and saw one word—Rastapopoulos. In his mind he caught of the fleeting glimpse, a shadowy figure seen from behind falling from some height. Then the smell of cigars drifted into his nostrils and as soon vanished. He put down the cup and tore through the papers for a picture of the man but could not find one.

He leaned back in the chair and tried to remember, but beyond what he had already recollected there was nothing, and his thoughts went spindling back to the chapel.

[flash back]

From where he sat hidden under the table, peering beyond the red table cloth out at the room, where the priest was preparing to leave, checking and rechecking the room as if he sensed he had missed something. Tintin held his breath as he drew closer, but the priest merely looked to make sure the potted plant that stood on the table had enough water. Apparently it did, for the priest went on to search somewhere else for his imagined trouble. Tintin smiled with relief and even stretched out his feet a little letting his toes touch the bottom of the tablecloth. There was a certain thrill in seeing how far you could go without getting caught, but most of the excitement was over—everyone seemed to have told all his or her confessions for that week, unless for some turn of fortune someone came in late. Hearing the faults of others was one of Tintin's few guilty pleasures. He would write down the more interesting stories he heard in a notebook and read them over when he was bored.

"Well, I guess that will be all for today," the priest thought aloud, with a slight shake of his head. He looked at the door but did not move. Tintin pulled his feet back and hugged his knees wondering if he had been discovered, and if the preist was just trying to find the right way to confront him.

Suddenly the front door was pushed open, and a man strode in. The priest appeared startled but folded his hands to quiet them and gave a slight and bewildered smile.

"Welcome to the House of the Lord," he said quietly.

"Could I talk to you a minute?" asked the man who had just entered. He was not a very tall but appeared to be quite strong, and his choice of clothing distinguished him as a man of wealth. He wore a handsome dark blue jacket with gold buttons, a gold colored vest over a starched white shirt, black pants, and glossy dark leather dress shoes. In his hand he held a hat of the same color and fabric as his coat. Tufts of flaxen hair formed an odd halo about his round ill-humored face.

"Of course."

"In private?"

The priest looked about him to see if there were anyone else about, but there was no one he could see.

"Out of sight?" the visitor insisted.

The priest looked a little nervous. Tintin wondered if he knew the man. It did not appear so.

"Is there something the matter?" the priest asked mildly, his folded hands twitching in their position.

"Out of sight of the windows."

"But why?"

"I wish not to be seen," the man paused, "you see, Father, I have something to confess to you."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, I have sinned greatly, but I am determined to make at least part of it up, but I cannot tell you here. The sun it is to much of a spectator."

The priest looked at the setting sun, shining in through the stained glass.

"Are you drunk, sir?"

"No, I am not. I do not drink."

"Come with me, please."

The priest led him to the enjoining room and shut the door behind him. Tintin crawled out from under the table and placed his ear to the door.

"Sit down, sir," the priest's voice was so low it was barely audible.

"I prefer to stand. I want to make this matter as brief as possible."

"If you say so."

"That I do, and I wish that you forget much of what I have to disclose to you."

"That I cannot promise."

"Very well. Perhaps you know of a boy who lives hereabouts. He'd be about twelve, thirteen, maybe a bit older but not much. I am not sure how well you know the children. I don't even know his name. He was born in Brussels. A hospital in Brussels, but they couldn't save his poor mother, but I guess that was mostly my fault…I, I deserted her, poor wretch. She was just a poor maid, but she was very pretty. Of course, I couldn't marry her. My family would have disowned me, but I could have done more. I just let her go. They fired her when they found out she was going to have a child. I didn't go out of my way to look for her."

There was a long pause.

"What you have done is indeed wrong, but I do not see why you come now. Do you wish to raise the child?"

"I could not do that without bringing dishonor to my family name. No, not as a father but as a benefactor do I come."

"And how am I to help in this, when you do not even know the child's name?"

"I thought maybe, well, it was a son, I know that much. They said he looked very much like his mother though. I have her picture here; take a look."

For a moment the whole building went quiet. Then the priest spoke.

"I am not quite certain, but I think I know who you mean, a boy with eyes like these. I have seen him many times playing in the wood or sitting alone writing."

"What is his name?"

"Tintin."

Tintin felt his heart beat stop, then come back slowly, and then beat wild and fast.

"Silly name for a boy, sounds more like the name of dog or cat or…who named him that?"

Tintin felt his body stiffen with indignation.

"I do not know, but that is what they call him. He is a handsome boy and very good at Latin, any language actually and a fine writer. He lives at the orphanage. The nuns there call him Tintin."

"I see, well, I was wondering if I could entrust a sum of money to you, for his living and education. I have only a small sum now, but, well, I'll bring more the next time I come this way."

"Why do you speak to me? Why not go to the orphanage and see what they have to say?"

"No, no, I would rather remain totally anonymous, and there would be a chance there of seeing the child, and I could, could not bear that."

"Well, sir, I do not much care for you, but for the sake of the child, I shall do as you say, though I believe it would be better for your soul if you would admit these sins and not just to me."

"That is mine to decide, is it not? And I choose not to do so."

"Then you choose to turn your back on yourself, but it is not for me to judge, but for our Lord."

The priest's words burnt hard with suppressed anger. For a few minutes the other man made no answer.

"Here take this," the stranger mumbled than walked towards the door.

Tintin, who had been sitting frozen in place, leapt back but not soon enough.

"Who is this?" the stranger cried looking down at the boy who lay sprawled on the floor.

The priest did not answer but hastened to pull the lad to his feet.

"Are you all right?"

Tintin nodded, his eyes wide.

"Good now go home."

"I…I…"

"Who is this boy? And why was he spying on us?"

"I am Tintin," the boy said firmly, sticking his chin out ever so defiantly.

The stranger started and then stared hard at him.

"You are not my son," he breathed, "you are not my son, you are not my son, do you hear me, you are _not _my son."

Tintin nodded, suddenly frightened, but the man kept on raving and his hands seized the boy's collar.

"None of what you heard was true? Do you understand, just a silly story, get that, boy? Never repeat a word I said tonight, or…"

The man was breathing hard, his eyes glowering like embers ready to spring into flame.

"Let go of him," the priest ordered coldly.

The man threw the boy to the floor and turned on the priest.

"Well, what are going to do about that?" he growled, "I bet you somehow foresaw I was coming, didn't you? And you laid this out as a trap."

"You are mad. I knew nothing of it."

The priest glanced at Tintin who had gotten to his feet.

"Run," he hissed.

The boy obeyed hurling himself through the door and out down the well-worn path towards the town. He called out for help as he ran. Faster and faster, not really paying attention still bent on the words he had heard, and he didn't see it coming.

[end of flash back]

"Tintin, what are you doing?" Haddock snapped, "Why are you pouring tea all over the papers?"

Tintin awoke from his thoughts and looked down and saw to his surprise that he was indeed pouring tea onto the papers. He blinked twice and then placed the teapot down.

"I am sorry, I just, I," Tintin shook his head.

"Well, don't worry," the captain said gruffly, "I'll clean it up."

**_Please Review_**


	7. Chapter Six

_**Okay, so sorry about the long wait. I've been away and uninspired. Thank you for your patience.**_

She has been tapping the bar between the two front legs of her desk for what seemed ages, silently rocking back and forth in the chair as minutes crept by. The whole class seems to have their eyes fixed on the clock. Even the professor seems bored by his stale introduction to the wonderful world of physics. How slow time seems to be moving, Armina thought sulkily. She stopped rocking long enough to jab down something the professor said in case it was needed for the examination. She sighed and bit her lip. Her pen somehow slipped from her hand and landed on the floor. She sighed again as she bent to pick it up. Another girl raised an eyebrow at her. This was the third time she had dropped a pen today. Armina pretended she did not notice, instead turning to her notebook she started sketching the profile of a classmate's face. It was a quick sketch so not very good, but no one in her class would hold still long enough to be properly drawn…unless, of course, they were sleeping.

She began wondering about the evening. She wondered how busy the hotel she worked at would be, what jobs would be assigned to her, and how long she would be obliged to stay. The prospect of working a full shift did not seem alluring right now, even if it meant better pay. She had not got much sleep these last few nights, and when she did manage it was a restless sleep, filled with nightmares, that left her drained and nervous.

"I am letting you out early today," a voice broke though her thoughts. She sat there rather stunned. He had never left anyone out early for any reason whatsoever. There must be a catch, she thought, and there was, "it appears that the president of our academy is paying us an impromptu visit and shall be making a speech in the auditorium that all students are required to attend."

The lady who had recently entered and was now standing beside the professor nodded her head cheerfully. Armina recognized her as the professor's wife, who sometimes worked at the cafeteria. She was more expensively dressed than usual in a sleeveless, floor length tangerine gown, a gold cuff bracelet, and a necklace of black pearls. She looks sultry and mysterious in it, Armina thought wistfully. She herself was only wearing a plain white blouse, a knee length tan skirt, and a pair of worn leather sandals. She wondered if the lady had dressed up for the president or if there was an evening party she was attending later. She then began thinking of the private lives of her professors, thinking of the things they might be doing when they were not giving lectures.

"Armina," Helen, a friend hissed in her ear, "quit daydreaming and come along."

Armina complied still rather lost in her thoughts. Then suddenly her fantasies were brushed aside by one alarming idea.

"But what about my job?" she asked, "I am suppose to be there in," she glanced down at her watch, "forty-three minutes!"

Helen sighed and shrugged.

"I am sure they would understand," she said, "after all it is required."

Armina was not sure if they would understand at all. She bit her lip indecisively. It was about a thirty-five minute walk to her place of work but maybe she could get a cab? She wondered how long the speech would be as she slid into one of the numerous velvety red stiff theater chairs of the auditorium. For a moment, all was still, then a young man in light grey suit and smart looking, shiny black shoes announced the president of the school, who appeared on stage in a dark blue suit and red tie which he fingered with what might have been nervous embarrassment but was probably only the discomfort of such a stiff suit which appeared to be two sizes too small. Perhaps he had bought it a few years ago when he had less of a stomach. No matter, there was a brilliant applause and the pianist began to the play Paradiso's national anthem, which sounded to Armina like some monstrous elaboration on "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star", but no matter, the pianist also received the same grand applause. Armina had two reasons to clap with the others: one, she was trying not to draw attention in case she decided to make a silent exit, and two because it gave her an excuse to glance at her watch.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the president with a small perfectly rounded charismatic cough, "I bring you here to tell you good news, the sort of which will bring joy to us all. The sort of news that for years, I have been dying to tell you. The sort of news that will change our lives as we know them…for the better. Well, anyway," he smiled charmingly at the audience at large and then met the eyes of every student as he continued.

"You know how we have been devoid of funds these pasts years. Trade has not been doing so well, too many interferers, romantics and the like coming in and breaking it a part, because it makes them feel like heroes, but a large part of that problem is being worked on right now, though I have not been told the means as of yet, but already we have a short break from the interference and have come by enough to add a wing to our art center and put up a new gymnasium."

A wave of astonished gasps rose from the audience followed by much applause from the both the students and faculty. The president of the school gave a low and flourishing bow.

"Of course," he said, "none of this would have been possible, if not for the intervention of the great general himself. General Morris personally made sure that we received…."

But Armina decided to wait no longer. Slowly she rose from her chair and quietly made her way down the side aisle. She walked first to a restroom, where she allowed herself a moment of peace, before washing the sleep from her face, and brushing out her shoulder length dark brown hair and tying it up behind her in a messy bun. She had not time to fix it more neatly so she exited the room silently and crept down the hall and out the door. No one had seen her. Good. Now she ran down the street until she was far from the school and out of breath. She walked as she caught her breath and checked her watch before taking off again. She turned the corner and the hotel came in view.

It was a large and beautiful building. Its walls were made from gleaming blue granite and set off with gold plate around the high well-formed cathedral windows. It had a small courtyard in front, so it stood a little ways from the street. A high shooting fountain with a gold basin stood neatly in the center of the courtyard casting a mist over the perfectly manicured lawn and giving the place a magical air. To either side the fountain swung two branching paths of white marble that reconnected on the either side of the fountain a few feet in front of the door…doors, well French doors, made from panels of stained glass depicting a maiden and an olive tree. White and blue roses, along with white carnations, forget-me-nots, blue boys, and baby's breath sprung out from either side of the doors, but Armina scarcely noticed any of it as she ran across the lawn—which was never really encouraged by the hotel—and then down one of the paths. Then suddenly there was a lady in front of her. She was a rather tall, important looking lady, but that just made it worse. Armina realized in a split second that collision was inevitable. She braced and slowed herself so the impact was not hard as it could be, but it still knocked them both to the ground. In all her life, Armina could not remember bumping into a complete stranger. It was just like something in a story, except much more awkward and frightening. The lady was glaring at her crossly from where she lay on her back on the hard stone floor of the lobby.

"I am so sorry, signora," Armina whimpered, "I did not see you."

The lady was straightening out her skirt so that it covered her upper legs better and looking rather skeptical and displeased. She had lovely legs. Armina thought it was an odd thing to observe at the time, especially since they were both of the same sex, if she had been a man maybe not so odd, but still. They were strong legs yet not very wide, and they somehow managed to keep her broader upper half up, well at least until that moment.

"I am so sorry," Armina repeated gloomily. She noticed that she had somehow managed to scrape her knee and now blood was seeping out, just a little but still. She sighed and hoped her skirt would not get stained. It was one of her better ones, though she had never much cared for it, "let me help you up?"

The lady shook her head and stumbled to her feet and looked around rather dazed at the large room.

"Why were you running in the first place?" she demanded sharply.

Armina hung her head.

"I was late for work…though through no fault of mine."

"You work here?"

"Why…yes," the girl replied weakly, hoping that the lady would not report the incident to her boss.

"Then would you be kind enough to show me to the desk?" the lady said carelessly.

"But, of course," Armina said, "allow me to carry your bags as well?"

The lady handed them over without a word. She seemed to be searching the room for something or someone, but eventually she gave up and turned back to Armina with a slight frown touching the corners of her scarlet lips.

"Are you all right, signora?"

"Well, my back is sore but I am sure I will manage somehow," the lady replied with an irritated huff, "I thought you were going to take me to the desk."

Armina nodded a little too eagerly.

"This way, signora," she said softly.

The lady followed looking absently at the elaborate décor and rich furnishings. The mosaic the floor formed was of a large sea serpent bending over a chained maiden, who gazed up in utter terror, her face devoid of the hope of a savior that usually characterized such tales. Armina had always wondered why it had been put there. Yes, it was beautiful, the detail of the girl and the vigorous strokes that characterized the monster held one captivated, but there was something frankly disturbing about it. Sometimes Armina felt that she too was being watched by the monster, which was just waiting for an opportunity to strike. The lady by her side paid it little mind. She gazed now at the walls, which were covered with gold curtains. She also stared half interestedly at white and black leather sofas and red velvet chairs and a chandelier of tremendous proportion that hung from the center of the high ceiling. Floor urns, holding an array of long stemmed flowers of various varieties, haunted corners and spaces between windows filling the room with an almost suffocating sweetness.

The lady seemed somehow to belong to such an environment, rich and exotic and somewhat harsh. Her face reminded Armina somewhat of a bird's with its large aquiline nose and its bright, piercing eyes that were still searching. Her skin was somewhat tanned as if she been outdoors much lately. Her hair was short, blond, and neatly styled around her flushed cheeks. She wore a diamond necklace, matching earrings, a red silk dress, and white high heels. Yet there was also something about her that did not seem to belong, almost as if she belonged nowhere, and she had been searching futilely all her life to find somewhere to call her own.

"Stop," the lady said loudly and abruptly, startling Armina out of her thoughts. She obeyed standing still and staring at the older woman. Every eye in the lobby seemed fixed on them, but the lady paid no heed. Her attention was focused on one thing.

A man had just walked out from the elevator. He was richly and elegantly dressed in a light grey suit, highly polished black leather dress shoes, and white gloves. His hair was sleeked back off his high forehead, which seemed to be bursting with the intelligence that sparkled in his dark brown eyes. He now took notice of the lady, who stood in the center of the floor, sparkling in the light of the chandelier like someone's lost ruby, but before he could move to claim her, she had begun to stride toward him, a perfectly affected smile on her tired face.

"Good evening, General Morris," she called out, "how nice to see you again. Ah, do you not, remember? We met in London. I had a concert there and talked to you in the party afterwards, but you were quite drunk, perhaps you do not recall talking to me, but..."

"Yes, yes," said Morris quietly, "how could one forget such a divine voice as yours, Signora Castafiore?"

"Oh, you should not flatter me so," Castafiore said with false modesty, ducking her head and blushing slightly.

"How could one flatter such a jewel as yourself, how could one praise higher than what he sees?" answered Morris with an encroaching smile.

Castafiore merely laughed and shook her head.

"Why, General," she said, "you are just as flirtatious when you are not drunk, or perhaps you are drunk, but you do not seem so."

"Hmm, I am not sure," Morris said with a wicked grin, "would a small glass of wine with lunch count?"

"No, I do not believe so, besides that was hours ago. You know I am quite hungry. I had not noticed it 'til now."

"Hmm, so am I, now that you have mentioned it, perhaps we could have dinner together?"

"Perhaps," the lady said with a smile, and then her face faded slightly, "I still need to check in."

"That should be easy enough," Morris said cheerfully, "follow me."

Armina watched as the two of them walked off towards the desk. She had remained frozen ever since the man appeared. There was something about him that terrified him. She thought maybe he could read her face and be able to tell everything that had ever happened in her life, or at least the past few days, which was probably the worse. She followed them at a distance, still having Castafiore's luggage in her hands. She decided to just put the bags down near the desk and slip off. This she performed quite easily. She had mastered the art of going unnoticed years before as a shy elementary school girl, the art of being invisible; it came in useful sometimes.

She knew she should try to pick up her schedule but decided to first attend to her knee. It had stopped bleeding long ago and had to her relief only left a small mark on the inside of her skirt, but her boss would find it unsightly and then lecture her on hygiene, so she washed it off in a bathroom and managed to borrow a bandage from a fellow worker before she met with her boss.


	8. Chapter Seven

_**All right, so sorry for taking so long, but here's the next chapter...**_

"Irma!" the scream thundered through the suite, "Irma, come at once, something has happened."

Irma raced into the bedroom to find Signora Castafiore pacing back and forth before the naked window.

"What is it, signora?"

"I am much distressed," Castafiore answered, playing with a gold bracelet on her wrist, "I met a gentleman in the lobby, and he said he would take me out to dinner, but he is quite late. I am afraid something must have happened to him. Would you run down to the lobby and ask around about him. His name is Morris, General Ripley Morris."

"Yes, of course, I will, signora. You must not worry yourself about it though, perhaps he has just forgotten…"

"Oh, no, no, Irma. He's not the sort to forget. Not at all. But keep yourself presentable…."

"Signora…" Irma said, a hurt expression in her eyes.

"Be discreet. Don't act too interested. Just casually pop it in. There's a good girl. I do hope there hasn't been an accident."

Castafiore looked out the window and into the quiet street.

"Perhaps business delayed him…I've heard…." Irma's voice trailed off as she turned towards the door.

"Do go, Irma. I haven't all day to listen to your excuses for him. Just go."

Castafiore looked up at the ceiling dramatically as if she were pleading to heaven to make her life a little easier. Irma gave her a sharp curtsied and hurried out of the room.

"Igor," Castafiore called into the next room, "play softly for me. My nerves are frazzled. Something soothing. I need to clear my thoughts."

Igor complied, drawing out the fullness of Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata _as a lover might draw open his lady's door.

Castafiore let out a satisfied hum and walked the length the floor, back and forth, running her fingers through the pink silk of the bed's canopy, as she passed it. Her eyes were half shut, as the door flung open. Men in flashy suits stormed in, pistols clenched in their hands. One of them held a squawking Irma under his arm.

"What is the meaning of this?" Castafiore cried. Her eyes rolled from one man to the next.

"We are terribly sorry, signora," the leader sneered, "for such a hasty intrusion. We are here to escort you to safety."

"Is that so?" Castafiore let the words linger, as her eyes wandered across the room, finally settling on Igor, who had just then been led in, gun to head, "what danger is there to fear? And what good will it do to terrify us when you need to evacuate quickly? Such weapons have a way of making a lady faint."

"I am sorry," the leaders said, "but the danger is nearly upon you, and we needed to think of a way to get out of here without much explanation. Now move it. We are going down. One scream out of you, and your little maid gets shot, and the pianist too."

"I do solemnly protest," Castafiore said.

"Silence," the man ordered. He slid his gun up his sleeve and pointed towards the door. They all went out and took the elevator to the lobby. From there they exited into the street and were zoomed off in dark windowed limousine.

* * *

><p>"So, you have accomplished the task of capturing the singer," Rastapopoulos said with a laugh, "but what are you planning to do with her? Keep her locked up and have Tintin ransom her life with his?"<p>

They were again in the front room, spilling words over tall glasses of wine.

"No, no," Morris said impatiently, "nothing that unoriginal. What do you think I am some kind of cheap gangster? No, my friend, we've doing business with each other for so long, I thought you would have learned. I only do things that are supremely fascinating to my taste."

"Ah, so your plan would be…?"

"I was sort of in a romantic mood. A wedding might be nice."

"What are you talking about?"

"Castafiore and I. The famous opera singer finally settles down."

"Impossible," Rastapopoulos scoffed, "you have no idea what you are getting into to."

"Perhaps, but I always like unpredictable cases. They make thing interesting."

"And dangerous. What stops the signora from blowing up in our faces, telling the public that she is being forced to marry against her will?"

"The signora has a heart…"

"She's in love with you?"

'No, no, but she does have a certain…let's call it fondness for her employees…threatening horrible deaths on them should keep her quiet long enough."

Morris smiled and bit into a pear.

"And what will the purpose of this marriage be?"

"Why, Roberto, wouldn't you know? To get Tintin here in my clutches. Haddock will be glad that Castafiore is finally off his back, and he will think it a welcome distraction for a poor boy that can't seem to figure out who he is."

"That's brilliant, Ripley. We take the boy then and kill him."

"No, no, don't get ahead of the game. This is a play we are working with, an opera if you will. Everything must be properly timed. Before Tintin can act his part, he must know who he is, otherwise we will not be tormenting your greatest opponent, but simply some poor orphan child."

"Well, how do you propose we reverse his memory loss?"

"Now that is a little tricky. You see in order for his memory to be re attained he would have to be exposed once more to the machine that captivated his thoughts in the first place."

"Does that mean we would loose all that information we would have on him?"

"Oh, no, no, my friend. I have it all on back up disks."

"How many does he cover?"

"Thousands upon, thousands, which is why I was only able to keep three years of information. The thoughts from his whole life…"

Morris just ended with a shake of his head.

"Well, anyway," he continued, "we need to find away to distract him, find a way to get him alone."

"Don't worry," Rastapopoulos said, "I'll think of something."

* * *

><p>"Chang," Tintin said, "are there really such things as yetis?"<p>

They were walking down a wooded path not far from Marlinspike. Tintin had been quiet all day, so much so that his trembling voice sounded like a shout.

"Oh, yes, Tintin," Chang said quickly "you saw one yourself."

"And yet, I can't…" Tintin broke off, "what it was like when you were with it in those mountains?"

"Well," Chang said. He came to a halt and looked with longing at the bare grey trees whose braches sighed as the wind blew through them.

"I," he began again, "I do not know if I can explain."

"Try?" Tintin said.

Chang took hesitant steps forward and then recovered his walk, actually moving faster than before, as if by going quickly he could leave the unwanted memories behind.

"He was just like a person," he said, "he would look at me with those eyes, such a pleading, pleading look, and I could do nothing but stare. I was too weak to scream when his monstrous arms reached for me, and so he lifted me, cradled me between his paws. My broken legs, my head ached, dizzying until my mind swam in, and I drowned in the dark."

"And?" Tintin insisted.

"What?" Chang asked, "I do not know what to tell you. I was terrified of him at first, but he brought me things, raw flesh. I ate it, and in time I could understand. His loneliness was greater than mine. For I was going to die, and he live on."

"Yes, Tintin, I had given up on life, lying there in the dark with breath still in me. I know you wouldn't have, but I did not think anyone would come. I dreamt of you, so many nights, and always I woke to pain and those pleading eyes, neither of which could I soothe. Slowly, my old life became a fantasy, washing away in the blizzards and avalanches that hid any evident of my escape. I lived because he wanted me too. My voice was tired, but sometimes I spoke, in scarce but rambling sentences that conquered and rejoined each other in the echo of the cave. That was the only time he smiled. He liked my voice, I guess, I don't know. I was so weak, so terribly weak. I didn't think much about it."

Tintin sighed, deeply as if he understood and wrapped an arm around the other boy.

"It's all right," he said, "you need say no more."

Chang smiled in relief and leaned his head against Tintin's shoulder.

"I believe you now," Tintin said softly, "I can believe everything, only I cannot believe I was the one who saved you."

Chang looked up at him through a dark mess of lashes. The sun was setting low in the sky.

"Why?" he said.

"Because, Chang," Tintin said, "I am you, and you are the yeti. You and Haddock and everyone else I know. You have saved my life, restored me to a state beyond what I can be. I do not believe that I am this great reporter Tintin. I think this must be a case of mistaken identity, and if it's the last thing I do I will get to the bottom of it, so you can have back your…why are you laughing?"

Chang bit his lip take back the smirk that was spreading across his face.

"Because you are you," Chang said, "you are so you, you cannot believe it.

"What?" Tintin asked.

Chang did not answer. Instead, he planted a quick kiss on his cheek, before darting forward into the clearing after Milou.


End file.
